


cure his heart

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Blood and Violence, Boot Worship, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Armitage Hux, Licking, M/M, Sexual Tension, Submissive Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 08:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19081348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: Kylo dirties Hux's boots while interrogating a prisoner, and has to clean up his mess personally.





	cure his heart

**Author's Note:**

> Just a boot kink drabble inspired by some conversations with my friend [ArsTyrannus](https://twitter.com/arstyrannus) and her subsequent art. Enjoy!

Hux thinks co-interrogations are a foolish idea. Adding a second person into the chamber usually only complicates and distracts from the primary focus of extracting information without making it all that more efficient. Perhaps with an officer as level-headed as he is they would work better—but, as is his luck, Hux tends to wind up stuck with the irrational tempest that is Kylo Ren.

Hux has spoken only a few words since the start of the interrogation, instead wisely keeping his hands tucked behind his back and his lips pursed. Bound in the chair sits a scruffy Resistance lieutenant with blood crusted in his blond hair and a mouth that won’t quit with the snappy retorts. Hux had quickly tired of questioning and taken a step back to relinquish control of the endeavor to Ren, instead observing from behind him.

Typically, Ren uses his Force abilities on the Order’s captives and draws information out of their minds, warping and tormenting them until they give in and relinquish all that he desires. Even the most trying of prisoners can’t hold up to the horrifying might of his powers on top of the shocks of pain delivered by the chair.

But today, it seems Ren’s patience is getting the better of him. After another snide comment from their prisoner and a glob of bloodied saliva spat upon Ren’s mask, he loses his temper entirely and snatches the handle of his saber from his belt. Before Hux can stop him or even blink, Ren ignites it in a crackle of burnt plasma and with one furious stroke severs the prisoner’s neck from his shoulders.

Hux flinches at the impact of the decapitated head as it skims across the floor with the force of Ren’s blow. The saber had moved so quickly that it only partially cauterized the wound, sending a fountain of blood splattering outwards. Hux takes a sudden step back but not fast enough to stop a sizzle of red from streaking across one of his boots.

His lip curls in disgust and annoyance at the Resistance blood staining the leather in a fat, glistening spray. _Filth_. He hates the way it looks, the way it mars the shoe he’d shone just before the beginning of the shift. Hux opens his mouth to scold his co-commander for his carelessness, for the futility of the interrogation, but as he lifts his eyes he can see Ren’s body trembling with rage, even from under the folds of his robes and with the helmet concealing his face. His fists clench at his side, one still wrapped tightly about his saber. The red plasma warbles erratically, ever a mirror to his barely tempered emotions.

Hux softens a bit, biting back his reprimand. This is familiar territory. See, Ren gets— _overwhelmed_ , sometimes. In moments of great pressure or with his nerves worn bare, he needs something or some _one_ to ground him away from the torrent threatening to send him adrift into true madness. Hux has recently come to fulfill that purpose—usually, when Ren returns from missions, exhausted and stained with grime and gore and in need of physical touch.

It would be a lie to say that part of Hux doesn’t resent the role he’s been forced into. After all, someone of his esteemed rank shouldn’t have to deign to nanny such an inimical young man, yet as he watches Ren struggle to hold himself together despite the way his anger tatters through him like blaster fire through a screen of cotton, he can’t help himself.  

Hux clears his throat, the sound echoing around the now quiet chamber.

“My boots, Ren. You’ve tarnished one of them.” He says calmly, tucking his hands behind his back. Ren’s shoulders stiffen, ghoulish mask turning to stare back at Hux. The lights of the interrogation room glint off the silver embossment around the hollow eyes and the blood dripping down towards the protruding chin of his mouthpiece. Like this, Hux wouldn’t question those who say Kylo Ren is a ruthless, unfeeling monster.

But he knows better.

“My boots,” Hux repeats, guiding Ren’s attention downward, “they’re all bloodied because of your impatience and lack of restraint.” He moves the offending foot in front of the other. “Fix this immediately.”

Many would rather cut their own throats than speak like this to a man with such a fearsome reputation spread throughout the galaxy. But Ren doesn’t challenge him back, doesn’t decapitate him just the way he did the Resistance scum. Hux doesn’t even have to say anything at all beyond the order, and just raises a stern, unflinching gaze in his direction.

With one skillful twirl Ren stows away his lightsaber and turns to face him. After a moment of hesitation—a habit Hux has yet to break him out of—Ren lifts his hands, steadying his trembling fingers as he removes the helmet from his head and lets it drop to the floor.

Hux isn’t so sure he’ll ever get use to the abrupt transition between the cold sculpt of Ren’s mask and the boyish softness in his actual face. The first time he ever saw it had been a situation similar to this—the very start of this odd relationship, as a matter of fact. What occurred next was something neither of them ever spoke of aloud, though it irreversibly altered the way Hux viewed Ren. No longer did he think of him only as Snoke’s prized asset, an unfeeling weapon no different than the fighters and cruisers of Hux’s own design.

His eyes follow Ren as he sinks to the floor in front of him, robes sweeping about the ground like disturbed shadows. Hux’s heart picks up in his chest, vigor rushing through him for the first time since the beginning of the interrogation.

He’s accomplished a lot in his life, he thinks. Risen brusquely through the ranks, attained the position of general despite his youth. Curried the favor of the Supreme Leader himself, and now he sits at the cusp of his greatest achievement, the unfurling plan that will bring the entirety of the New Republic, of the _galaxy_ , under either the command or devastation of the First Order.

Yet Hux has never felt more powerful than he does with a man as terrifying as Kylo Ren on his knees before him.  

Wordlessly, Hux lifts the sullied boot up off the floor, presenting it to Ren. After a moment, his gloved fingers curl underneath the sole, supporting it in his palm as he hunches his shoulders and cranes his neck down and forward. With his other hand, he traces through the blood, wetting his fingers red. Hux shivers as he watches Ren bring his fingers to his mouth, pausing for a moment before slipping his tongue between his lips and licking at the tips. A little groan rumbles up from Ren’s throat as he tastes it, nearly drawing a similar sound out of Hux.

Ren cups the boot in both hands, hair cascading around his face and neck as he raises it up to his lips. Tongue slips between them again, this time pressing flat against the stained leather. Ren laps at it slowly, clearing the blood away even as he leaves glistening saliva in the wake. He leaves no spot untouched, even gliding his tongue around where red seeped into the seams of the material. The sight of that pretty pink mouth calls to mind other, more sordid memories—not that there’s _nothing_ obscene about the way Ren licks his mess clean. Especially with the uptick in satisfied, savoring sounds that quiver along the slope of Hux’s boots as Ren mouths the leather with so much hunger and reverence that it takes all of the general’s composure not to haul him up and pin him against the wall with a kiss. If there’s one thing he truly appreciates about an unmasked Ren, it’s his unabashed _need_ to please.

Once the blood is all gone Hux flexes the slick toe of his boot upwards, letting it rest against Ren’s lower lip. Deep brown eyes raise up from beneath the wild curtain of hair, imploring, needing, _craving_ commendation for his task. For a moment, the nastier facet of Hux’s desire entertains the idea of withholding it, forcing Ren to go further, supplicate himself even more in front of his general. But there’s a fragility in the little flecks of gold peeking through the umber iris of Ren’s eyes, and to risk breaking it might wound Hux deeper than he’d like to admit. So instead he lowers his boot from Ren’s lips and extends his hand, fingers outstretched, palm offered.

“Well done, Kylo.”

A soft whimper slips from between those plush lips at that, glistening with saliva and blood. Ren tilts his head back, sitting up until the crown of his head pushes against Hux’s hand. He weaves his fingers through Ren’s hair, combing the unruly locks back against his scalp in even strokes. Sweat-damp and soft to the touch from sitting beneath his helmet. Sweetly pettable.

Ren’s anger gradually settles, his eyes closing as he submits to the general’s rewarding hand. Behind them, the corpse of the foolish rebel cools, blood pooling from its severed head. A smile crosses Hux’s lips as he cups Ren’s face, finger stroking away the last bits of tension there.

All is well.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://thethespacecoyote.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heir_of_breath7/).


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